


Midnight Streets

by queerhazeleyes



Series: Breathe Me In, I'll Breathe You Out [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:50:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerhazeleyes/pseuds/queerhazeleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last night before the barricade. Grantaire draws Enjolras away from his nitpicking and last-minute obsessing over plans to breathe the night air. They take in Paris at night, because if you're going to fight for a city you should see it in all its incarnations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Streets

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Nothing For Granted" by Brendan James

As night fell on June 4th in Paris, Les Amis worked on in the back room of the Musain. Their revolution was so close they could practically taste it, in the acrid odor of melted lead as they cast shot over candle flames. They chattered excitedly through the afternoon and early evening, reviewing and revising plans for the next day and what would follow Lamarque’s funeral. The cafe proper had long closed before Bossuet and Joly left for their mistress and her bed. Their departure sparked Bahorel's, who claimed a similar destination. After him followed Fueilly, who had a shift to work before he could rejoin them. One by one, the rest followed after in search of their beds, until only two remained: Grantaire, slowly nursing his bottle of wine, and Enjolras, bent over the plans spread across the table and squinting to see in the light of the last dying candles. Unaware of Grantaire’s watchful gaze, he muttered to himself as he ran his finger over figures detailing supplies of guns and rounds, tracing routes through maps of Paris til the ink marked his hands like soot.

Finally Grantaire could take no more. “Enjolras,” he said.

Enjolras looked up and blinked, seemingly surprised to find the room empty. Squinting at the darkness, he peered around the room trying to find the speaker.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said again, and the man’s eyes found him in the shadows. “Enough for tonight.”

Enjolras frowned and opened his mouth to retort, but Grantaire raised a hand to quiet him.

“Your candle is nearly out. The others have all gone to their rest, even your two lieutenants. There is nothing more you can achieve until morning comes and Paris awakes again.”

Enjolras let out a sigh at that and rubbed his eyes, which were red with exhaustion. “You are right,” he conceded.

Grantaire’s lips curled into a smile and he staggered dramatically, one hand over his heart. “I never thought I would live to see this day! Apollo, admitting defeat so easily! Tonight shall surely be marked down in history.”

“Watch yourself, Grantaire,” Enjolras warned. What little candlelight remained lit him from beneath, casting warm light and soft shadows on his untied cravat, his exposed throat. “Do not push my good favor; I will not repeat myself.”

“Hardly.” Grantaire got to his feet in a sprawl of loose limbs. “Perhaps you should seek your own bed ere the sun rises and brings your Republic with it.”

“I would,” Enjolras said. His usually arrow-straight posture was bowed. “But I cannot sleep. I fear…” Enjolras took a deep breath and looked Grantaire in the eye. “I fear I would find our failure in my dreams.”

Caught in the leader’s gaze, Grantaire froze. He had never expected to see the expression of doubt upon that face, of fear and anxiety. They were emotions Grantaire knew as well as childhood friends, but it had always seemed Enjolras was immune to their effects. Grantaire found to his own terror that he had no words of comfort to offer. He opened his mouth anyway in hope something would come to him.

“Come with me,” he found himself saying.

“Where?” Enjolras asked.

_Where indeed._ “You’ve never walked Paris at night, have you?” Grantaire asked. A plan was starting to form in his mind. 

“No,” Enjolras replied hesitantly.

“Then come with me, and see the streets you will be fighting for when tomorrow comes. Walk the avenues that have stained your fingertips with map ink.” He stepped forward and held out a hand, and nearly jumped in shock when Enjolras clasped it.

“Show me,” Enjolras said.

So Grantaire did.

They blew out the few candles that had yet to gutter themselves but left their papers spread on the tables, locking the door to the back room instead; Madame Hucheloup would keep anyone from disturbing them. That done, they left through the rear door and stepped out into the night.

The moon hung over their heads as Grantaire led them through the narrow, twisting lanes of Paris, a fat crescent building towards fullness. He stopped them at unexpected points to speak of a woman who lived over that shop, taking care of her brother and sisters after their parents had died of cholera the year before, or this bakery that charged more to well-dressed patrons so they could afford to sell at a loss to the poorer crowds. Together they raced along the dark streets, and when Enjolras’ foot caught on a loose cobble, Grantaire reached out to steady him before he fell.

The touch lingered on his elbow for longer than was necessary. When it finally fell away Enjolras asked, “How do you know all these things?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I often walk when I find myself unable to keep still. Others occasionally do the same, and will say much over a shared bottle of wine.” Unable to hold Enjolras’s intense stare, he dropped his gaze. “My rooms are near here, is all.”

Heart in his throat and not understanding why, Enjolras caught Grantaire’s hand in his own and held tightly until the cynic met his eyes once more. “Show me,” he said, more forcefully than before.

Grantaire swallowed past his own racing pulse and nodded.


End file.
